It works. He shouldn't be surprised that it works, but work it does, and, apparently unable to detect the scent of warm flesh beneath that which has already died, the walkers begin to mill about. One of them leers unpleasantly close, milk white eyes wide and empty.

Tim's jaw clenches as he represses a shudder. There's sweat and...things sticking to the back of his neck, warm and slippery.

Forward. Forward. Shuffling slowly, painfully slowly, trying not to bump into the damn things. There's still the roar of flame behind them, the stench of gasoline clinging to the back of his throat in a coppery tang, but all they can do is move forward and get out, as quickly as they can.